


Revivalism

by PlasticEyes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, eyes emoji, talon organization is pretty much about to die, way in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlasticEyes/pseuds/PlasticEyes
Summary: Still, it was a little weird seeing her like this.“Wait so you guys actually killed her?”“I mean yeah we were kind of assigned to Angela.”//(In which Moira is kind of supposed to be dead.)





	Revivalism

There was this weird thing to her.

Maybe it was the razor shaped jawline outlining the masculinity of her façade, thinly precise as it was brushed into a shade of black and red bristly hair. Barely taken unto notice under the normal circumstances as her fingers would graze along the stubbles and yank at strands of silk and butter. There’d always be a haze entrapped within the room, seemingly responsible for the precarious actions surrounding them both.

There was this _really_ weird thing to her.

Mainly because it wasn’t usually herself that would entice the given sweat tantalizing scenarios of labored breathing and jumping nerves, but the other way around. Unusual, since it was usual for herself to be given the authority of every similar situation. Additionally, it wasn’t like Dr. O’Deorain had given any indications of appearing timid in any possible manner. Given her towering height, uncorrelated hued eyes, impeccable aptitude; to which there was no surprise to her given success in her chosen research.

Still, it was a little weird seeing her like this.

“Wait so you guys actually killed her?”

“I mean yeah we were kind of assigned to Angela.”

She did laugh, a bit, because of the irony and maybe because it kind of was funny. If Angela were to describe what her relationship with the older woman was, she would simply say _high school_. Stupid, unnecessary, immoral, sensitive and absolutely _exhilarating_.

“I know Jack,” she scratched uncomfortably at the back of her neck. “Honestly, I just never expected you guys to actually succeed.” 

He looked back to her, if anything offended in his colleague’s lack of faith in his team. “Is that why you had your full team ready for us when we got back?”

“Pretty much,” she shrugged, turning to look back at their deceased enemy. “So Talon’s really coming down now, isn’t it?”

“After her, we’ll have them practically surrounding by next month.” It was an empty sentence though, and Angela could tell. Following their previous experiences throughout life, both knew it was too early to assume a celebration.

“I hope so,” she sighed. “I’ve been starting to think I’ll never be able to see through with my hopeful retirement plans up in Bolivia.”

And it’s not that their relationship was unknown by the vast majority. The attempted undisclosed association became inadequate after a year of affiliation had passed. An entire 365 days in which Angela had truthfully enjoyed, unraveling the mysteries of an enticing individual and her particular capabilities in bed.

“Didn’t you make those plans with her?” he gestured over to her limp form.

“No jackass, I made them way before her.”

“Hey that’s not cool Angela. The “Jack” and “Ass”, I see what you did there.”

“Alright you can get out now Jack,” she said, stifling back a laugh at the sight of her friends hurt face. “Have some respect and let your mourning friend have some alone time with her past gf.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled before shutting the door behind him.

See now, what was especially unusual in this case was that Dr. O’Deorain woke up.

Angela had admitted to herself that she was conflicted. She wasn’t necessarily sad, maybe more so bitter. Content to the point in which bitterness only laid near to the drawn line of stability and insecurity. They’re definitely was a point in which they both genuinely loved each other very much, but that point was weak and unstable. Doubts and deceits drew out the eventual annihilation of a wholesome connection, since it never really was guaranteed. It was all hypothetical. “If” and “maybe” plaguing any thoughts to a possible future forever together, since it was new and precarious to both definitions of their “normal”.

She regarded it as a bittersweet memory, that maybe if they had more time it could have actually become something memorable. Choices were made, and inevitably she was the second. Moira’s research was her life, and Angela had predicted it from the beginning she met her. Anticipated, yet ignored in hopes of a potential blessing on her assigned fate.

So if Moira’s sudden gasp for air didn’t startle the little life out of Angela’s poor heart, then the bloodshot eyes might as well have done the trick.

 _It was instinctual_ , Angela would later think to reassure herself of any thinkable guilt. After her sudden revival, Moira had sat up straight almost immediately, to which her confusion was further muddled as a heavy force connected itself with the side of her face. There was only a momentary buzz of pain before her vision went from blurry to black once more.

 “Oh no,” she said blankly to really no one in particular, given that the only conscious lifeform in the area had just been knocked out by the vigor of her forearm. “Oh wow,” now looking down to her red palm, then to Moira’s unconscious body now lying face first on the tile flooring.

The common procedure for the given situation wasn’t entirely too difficult to carry out. There was an order for the termination of this particular individual. The order, thus far, has apparently not been finalized. The correct action to follow out was (duh) kill her. Something Angela could have easily done, given the supplies splayed across the basement morgue. She could do it quick and painless, something the scientist no doubt deserved far harsher.

However, Angela was livid now because even after death Moira was _still_ able to somehow complicate her life. Of course she wasn’t about to kill the woman she had just come onto tolerant terms with. But then what _was_ she supposed to do? She couldn’t just put Moira in a body bag and wheel her out to her car.

“Have a good night Doctor.”

“Thank you Winston.”

She slowed the cart at the upcoming corner, taking extra ease to prevent a second tumble and attract further unwanted attention. So far everything seemed to be according to plan – _plan_ as if she could it that, the impulsivity of the situation being far too high to even be considered well-though out. The wheels to the trolley cart squeaking lightly from the weight with every rotation. When she finally got to her hover car (her strategy apparently achieved despite its weak chances of success), she set to work heaving the bag into the back seat. The trunk feeling unwise since Moira could wake up at any moment really.

The entirety of the scenario seemed theatrical to Angela. Not so much the return of an old partner, but more so the dimly lit parking lot hiding her enigmatic actions.

There was a mumble from the bag as Angela started up the car. She had a syringe ready in her inner coat pocket, wary of the dangers Dr. O’Deorain possessed.

Moira O’Deorain had been a problematic subject on the revived Overwatch company. The association she had was officially removed upon the discovery of her Blackwatch membership, and yet loose ends would always continue to prowl until the day she stopped breathing. It was a sloppy order therefore, carried out primarily for the protection of their reputation instead of the good of the people. A tightly planned mission, one that Angela had admitted her lack of faith in from the moment it was suggested.

The sound of increased breathing and struggling had Angela’s free hand already pulling out the syringe. The needle went through the bags thin material and into Moira’s thigh. There was a small _yelp_ before Moira’s head visibly thumped back down onto the seat.

 _And they didn’t succeed_ , so Angela had been right; and it hadn’t been her “feelings” getting in the way of professional business.

No one would know about Moira’s revival though. It was Angela who had been in charge of disposing of the body. Given the shade of the mission, only a selection of Overwatch occupants had known of the assignment; that being Jacks team of four and herself. Under typical circumstances, there was a specialized team in charge of body disposal. Moira, however, wasn’t typical. The group of workers were cleared from the morgue, giving Angela charge of her assigned task.

So as far as anyone was curious of, Moira was dead. The ashes of her clothes and body were somewhere in a dumpster and her weaponry destroyed. It could be seen as rash as well, considering the viable information Dr. O’Deorain’s body had to possibly offer to their own research. Hypocritical in a way, however if done in caution –doable.

Here was where things became slightly tricky for Angela. She had arrived at her apartment building, parking in her usual spot and powering off the car. There weren’t many options on how to get Moira to her apartment, like _should I just drag her innnn or…_

Yeah so she ended up just dragging her in. It was a long and tiresome journey for her, considering Moira’s physique. Somehow, fortune allowed her a safe passage and she encountered zero personal. She supposed, it wasn’t too hard, more so a hassle. The building was usually inactive during the late hours of the night, and most people were too engaged with their own lives to even try and nose through other people’s personal lives. Being seen pushing a body bag into an elevator would elicit a weary conversation that she would certainly win over, given her current status and natural buoyancy.

There was a sheen on gathered sweat at the back of her neck before she finally reached her door, closing and making sure to lock it behind her. Her first matter of attention was to secure her new visitor, locking her arms underneath Moira’s arms and heaving her now warm body out from the bag. She slid her into the bathroom, grunting as she dropped her near the refrigerator and stood stiffly, stretching out her back. She went to work then, first retrieving the pair of automated handcuffs she’d scuffed from the Overwatch supply room for the “greater good” as Fareeha had told her once. Then she was at work with Moira’s clothing, slipping off her socks and making sure to strip her of her black Henri Maurice thermal turtleneck and loos-fitted pants. The smell of sweat and blood was apparent, and she only sighed as she tossed them out of arms reach.

Now Moira was unconscious and in only her undergarments, and it was here Angela let herself observe.

Observe –the very _very_ apparent discoloration of Moira’s right arm.

“What did you do you to yourself you absolute fucking idiot.”

She wasn’t expecting an answer, in all honesty she was just disappointed. Angela had heard of Moira’s accident, along with her prolonged research after she was found to have joined Blackwatch. She knew of the ability Moira possessed, after receiving the lucky surviving victims of her newfound ability.

It was Angela’s voice that had, as some would say, “awakened” her. She came to slowly though, and Angela wasted no time cuffing one of Moira’s hands and slipping the other pair to the cuff through the handle to the refrigerator before cuffing the other hand. It wasn’t a comfortable position, but then again Angela didn’t really drag Moira to her apartment for her leisure (wait wait why did she _bring Moira to her apartme-_ )

When Moira opened her eyes, the world was a flash of lights and blurs and before she knew it there was bile dripping down her chin. She sputtered, confused and feeling profusely cold and dizzy at the same time. When she tried to stand, her legs weakly abided and hands held her still. Her movements were feeble, she noticed, before emitting a second round of bile to her side. The first round, she had come to notice once more, had spilled all over her body. Her body, that is, in which was near naked. She struggled to find some way to cover herself until realizing the predicament of her locked wrists.

“I’m going to be honest,” and her stomach all but plummeted into an lave-encrusted abyss because she _knows that voice so well_. “You look undeniably pathetic dear.”

So Moira looks up and lord and behold, the name on her tongue and the thought on her mind since that voice had visited in her dreams quite recently –bringing back pleasant and yet nostalgic memories. She tries to laugh but all that comes out is a watery cough, meanwhile her legs are soaking up the spilled bile and she can hardly even try to stand or sit up in any way at this point without slipping.

“Can you even talk?”

Moira can now _hear_ the disappointment in Angela’s voice, and she _detests_ every moment of living for appearing in such a fragile state to her former companion. She can now begin to see, the blur fading into focus and she sees Angela for the first time in a while. She’s kneeling next to her, gun in one hand with the safety noticeably off. She’s aged, but so has Moira. The dark bags and dense eyes only being a sign of late nights and the heaviness of a life dead on her watch.

“Yes,” it’s a whisper. She clears her throat, painfully, a growing headache threatening her vision once more. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my kitchen.” Well she wasn’t expecting that. “Morrison killed you and I was supposed to burn your body out of existence. But,” Moira watched her sigh, rolling her eyes. “You kind of just came back to life and honestly I didn’t really feel like killing you so here we are.”

Well Moira laughed. A bit frightening to watch, confusion turning into the utmost of pleasure and the crazed laughter ringing off the sides of her ear. Angela frowned, beginning to feel uncomfortable at being discomfited in the midst of her own household. Without a second thought, the barrel to the gun was put to Moira’s forehead, engaging even more glee from her.

Gradually Moira’s laughs turned to wheezes, and she slumped down, as if accepting her fate to come. It was then Angela removed the gun, still grasping it firmly in one hand while taking in her observations. Moira was, quite frankly, crazy –and Angela chided herself for being so god damn rash. Now the responsibility was on her, and she honestly had no idea what to do next.

“Well well,” Moira was still smiling, her voice coming out as a scraping rasp. Her shoulders remained slump, head tilting limply up to stare her unbalanced look seemingly into Angela’s sagacity.

“Looks like mercy decided to shine down on me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi its been a while and I have many unfinished stories and im so sorry but tbh im not sober and was feeling this ship pretty hard and wanted to write smthn on it so here, love all you honeyboos also Moiras not a zombie she's a genius and always has a backup plan even after death
> 
> [pls i want them to fuck]  
> tritan dont fucking judge m e im depressed reee


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